


Still With You

by SugarHighs



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Forgetting (and remembering), Future Fic, Growing Old, M/M, Photographs, i cried while editing this, mostly angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29240307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarHighs/pseuds/SugarHighs
Summary: Atsumu wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead, and turns around. He looks up to see Kiyoomi watching him, elbows resting on the windowsill.It looks like something out of a fairy tale- their neat blue-trimmed house, with ivy climbing up the walls, not a cloud in the sky that stretches for miles and miles over suburban Tokyo, and the love of his life gazing at him after a lifetime spent together, their bedroom window framing him like a perfect picture.Atsumu feels a grin threatening to split his face open. Kiyoomi laughs at him fondly, and disappears from their window back into the bedroom.“That Sakusa-san up there?” Their neighbour asks, squinting up at the window behind Atsumu.“Mm. He’s resting today. Probably the joint pains again.”“I see,” she says, and gives a little wave. Atsumu’s eyebrows furrow a little. “He’s gone back inside,” he says. “I’ll tell him you said hi, later.”She pauses for the shortest of moments, and then nods. “Of course,” she says. The sun behind her is shining too brightly for Atsumu to see her expression. “Must’ve been a trick of the light.”-Old photographs, sunsets, and a lifetime of love.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 22
Kudos: 87





	Still With You

**Author's Note:**

> Aoi: Their daughter
> 
> Takeshi: Their son
> 
> Riko: Their granddaughter
> 
> Haru: Their grandson
> 
> Atsumu and Sakusa: The loves of my life

_The rain pours even when I dance alone._

* * *

Atsumu turns over slowly, vision still hazy with sleep, and finds Kiyoomi already awake.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.” Atsumu has never quite gotten out of the habit of pet names, even after a good sixty years of marriage, and seventy years of being with Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi reaches over and tucks Atsumu’s hair behind his ear, and Atsumu smiles. Kiyoomi, too, is unchanged. His curls may be silver and grey instead of inky black, and he may not be able to bend his wrists all the way backwards the way he could at twenty-two, but when Atsumu looks at him, Kiyoomi is as handsome as the day they met. In any case, Atsumu never fails to remind him that he’s had those forehead wrinkles since they were in high school, anyway.

“Did you sleep well?” Kiyoomi’s voice is soft, and it matches the smile on Atsumu’s face perfectly.

“Mm,” Atsumu hums. “’M starving, though.” He sits up and swings his legs out from under the covers as if it were just yesterday Japan won the silver medal in the Olympics and his back doesn’t protest loudly at that. “Breakfast?”

Kiyoomi stretches in bed, like a lazy cat basking in the morning sun. “Think I’ll sleep in for a bit. I’m not really hungry, anyway.”

Atsumu follows the smell of porridge downstairs, to where their housekeeper, Hana, is laying a bowl on the kitchen table. “Smells amazin’, Hana-kun,” he greets. “Any chance I could get some bacon to go with it?”

“Miya-san,” Hana’s tone is reproving. “You know your doctor said no high-cholesterol foods.”

Atsumu sighs dramatically, but sits down and pulls the bowl in front of him anyway. He had initially been opposed to hiring a housekeeper, but Aoi argued that her fathers needed someone to make sure they were sticking to their respective diet plans (no sweets for Kiyoomi and only low cholesterol meals for Atsumu). Atsumu had relented, in the end. Their daughter has Atsumu’s charming smile and Kiyoomi’s determination. A lethal combination, he muses.

“Omi isn’t havin’ breakfast today, by the way,” Atsumu belatedly remembers to inform Hana. “He said he isn’t hungry.”

Hana’s back is facing Atsumu from where she stands by the sink in front of the kitchen window, but she nods in acknowledgment.

Atsumu notices that she hadn’t even prepared a second bowl of porridge, and frowns slightly. To be fair, though, Kiyoomi had been skipping a fair amount of breakfasts lately. Something about his appetite shrinking with age, although Kiyoomi has always been a picky eater.

“I’m going to have to clean the shelves today,” Hana tells him as he finishes breakfast and puts his bowl into the sink. “They’re getting dusty. What are you planning to do, Miya-san?”

“I think I might bring a book up for Omi,” Atsumu muses. “He’s been wantin’ to improve his English lately.”

“Ah,” Hana says. She keeps her eyes on the pot she is scrubbing, and is silent for a bit before she speaks again. “I think the weeds are starting to grow in the flowerbed again. How about some gardening this morning? The weather is wonderful today.”

Atsumu pauses. Sensing his hesitation, Hana presses on. “I’m sure Sakusa-san would like to rest, too.”

“Right ya are,” Atsumu’s gaze clears, and he smiles brightly at the little plot of sunflowers outside the window. He doesn’t notice the line of tension in Hana’s shoulders relaxing almost imperceptibly.

…

In the garden, Atsumu gets the woven basket of tools from the shed, and settles down on a small stool to start plucking the weeds. His neighbour, a friendly middle-aged woman with Kansai-ben just like his, is out in her garden too, tending to her tomato plants with a giant sunhat on her head. She reminds Atsumu of his mother, when she was alive, and he smiles fondly.

“Miya-san,” she calls, and Atsumu greets her politely. “How are the grandkids?”

“Ah, Haru won first place at an art competition yesterday,” Atsumu says proudly. “Heaven knows where he got that flair for art from, ‘cause he certainly didn’t get it from his mother or his granddads.”

His neighbour chuckles heartily, and gets back to her gardening. Atsumu wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead, and turns around, looking up to see Kiyoomi watching him, elbows resting on the windowsill. It looks like something out of a fairy tale- their neat blue-trimmed house, with ivy climbing up the walls, not a cloud in the sky that stretches for miles and miles over suburban Tokyo, and the love of his life gazing at him after a lifetime spent together, their bedroom window framing him like a perfect picture.

Atsumu feels a grin threatening to split his face open, and nearly sends the shears in his hand flying with his enthusiastic wave. Kiyoomi laughs at him fondly, and disappears from their window back into the bedroom.

“That Sakusa-san up there?” Their neighbour asks, squinting up at the window behind Atsumu. She is backlit by the sun, so Atsumu can’t quite see the expression on her face.

“Mm. He’s resting today. Probably the joint pains again.”

“I see,” she says, and gives a little wave. Atsumu’s eyebrows furrow a little. “He’s gone back inside,” he says. “I’ll tell him you said hi, later.”

She pauses for the shortest of moments, and then nods. “Of course,” she says. The sun behind her is still shining too brightly for Atsumu to see her face. “Must’ve been a trick of the light.”

…

Some weekdays, when they are free, Aoi and Takeshi drop by for lunch. Their father often insists that the drive from the city centre where they work is too troublesome to fit into their lunch hour, but much like both their fathers, their children are stubborn as mules.

Today it’s just Takeshi, toeing off his shoes at the genkan at a quarter past twelve. Hana is still in the middle of cleaning the shelves, so the kitchen island is covered with photos and trinkets.

“Do you remember when we brought you and Aoi to the beach, and she decided to bury you in sand while you slept?” His dad grins at Takeshi when he comes in, and laughs at how much his scowl resembles his other father.

“And my classmates laughed at me the next day because my whole face was bright red and sunburnt? Yes, I think I remember that.”

His father snorts, and his fingers linger on his best high school setter plaque, slightly rusty with age. Takeshi looks down at it too, and smiles wryly. “I never understood why you chose to put this right in the middle of all the photos, but you shove your Olympic medal in some box upstairs where no one can see.”

“Better than your Uncle Tobio and Uncle Shouyou,” his father says darkly. “The idiots melted their medals into wedding rings.”

“Some would call that sentimental, Dad,” Takeshi says dryly, and picks up a framed photo of him and his cousin grinning at Uncle Kita’s farm, knee deep in the mud of the paddy fields. Somewhere in the background, his dad chases Uncle ‘Samu through the farm with Aoi on his shoulders, while Uncle Rin takes a video of them on his film camera.

“How’s Papa doing today?” he asks carefully, his eyes still on the faded picture.

“Ah, he won’t be having lunch with us today,” his dad sighs, his smile fading slightly. “I’ll bring lunch up for him later.”

“I see,” Takeshi says, and puts down the photo. “Riko won her first Inter High game yesterday,” he says, changing the subject.

“That’s my girl,” his dad says affectionately. Hana sets down their lunch in front of them, and they dip their heads in sync.

“Itadakimasu.”

…

Later, Atsumu tells Hana that he’ll take care of rearranging the photos on the shelf. She lets him do it without much protest, and goes outside to sweep up the dead leaves that have gathered on their front path. It’s autumn again, it seems. He hadn’t noticed.

At some point in the afternoon, Kiyoomi comes downstairs, leaning heavily on the banister. “What are you doing?”

Atsumu waves him over. “I’m making a wall of ugly tears.”

“A what,” Kiyoomi says flatly, looking over Atsumu’s shoulder at the row of photos lined up neatly on the coffee table. The first is of Kiyoomi weeping buckets the night they first brought Aoi home, a single tuft of black hair peeking out from the swaddle in Kiyoomi’s arms. The next is an almost identical photo, taken two years later when they adopted Takeshi. And then there’s Kiyoomi pressing a handkerchief to his eyes on the day Aoi graduated from elementary school, and again when it’s Takeshi’s turn. There are about ten photos lined up so far, and Atsumu doesn’t doubt that he’ll find many more.

“If you’re doing that, don’t forget your high school graduation photos. And the V League awards ceremony when you beat Kageyama for best setter. And the Olympic medal ceremony. Shall I go on?”

“Say whatcha want, but ya can’t deny ya became much more of a crier as we grew older,” Atsumu smiles cheekily at Kiyoomi.

Kiyoomi lets out a long-suffering sigh. “You’re a bad influence.”

Behind Kiyoomi, Hana is busying herself with preparing dinner. Her son is here, too, and he watches them inquisitively before Hana tells him to get back to his homework.

“Are ya feeling up to dinner tonight?” Atsumu asks, placing a hand over Kiyoomi’s, which rests lightly on his shoulder. “Ya missed Takeshi, earlier today.”

“I heard him from upstairs,” Kiyoomi says. “Told you Riko would end up being a setter. She takes after you.”

“I’ve done one thing right,” Atsumu dramatically swipes at his eyes, and Kiyoomi snorts a little. “So, dinner?”

Kiyoomi pauses. “Just us?”

“Yep. Hana and her boy can’t stay today.”

“Okay, then.”

Atsumu beams, and turns to the kitchen. “Hana, Omi’s feeling better! He’s having dinner with me,” he calls.

Hana is already laying out two plates on the table. “I heard,” she says, and chides her son to pack his things.

“See you tomorrow, Miya-san,” Hana’s little boy says on his way out the front door.

“And Sakusa-san. Or Miya-sans is fine, too,” Atsumu smiles at Kiyoomi. He misses the way the boy opens his mouth, and his mother subtly pinches him before he can say anything.

“Goodbye, Miya-sans,” he says dutifully.

…

“My granddaughter won her first Inter High game today,” Atsumu brags.

“Mine made agedashi tofu for me yesterday,” Osamu’s voice is tinny down the line, but just as proud. “I’m gonna make sure she inherits Onigiri Miya.”

“Ya sure about that? ‘Cause it’s Onigiri Miya, y’know, not Tofu Miya.”

“I hope Riko decides she’d rather be a spiker.”

Their weekly phone calls had become tradition, as their lives took on separate trajectories and their backs could no longer withstand the three-hour journey between them. Osamu and Suna had eventually settled down in Osaka, where the biggest branch of Onigiri Miya was and where Suna had, in a turn of events, started teaching high school students math. Atsumu had laughed for about two whole days when he’d found out. Meanwhile, Atsumu and Kiyoomi had returned to Tokyo after two successful Olympics, with Atsumu being recruited to coach the new Olympic teams.

“How’s Sakusa?” His brother asks suddenly. Old habits die hard, since Osamu and Sunarin had never quite gotten use to calling Kiyoomi anything other than Sakusa.

Atsumu turns to where Kiyoomi lays on the pillow next to him, fast asleep, and cards a hand through his hair, still as soft after all these years. “Better today,” he says.

His brother’s exhale is tinny through the distance that separates them. “That’s good.”

Atsumu watches some more as the moonlight dances across Kiyoomi’s features, and commits every inch to memory. There is silence on the other end of the line, but Atsumu doesn’t have to check his phone to know that Osamu is still there, hundreds of miles away but still by his side.

“’Samu?”

“Yeah, ‘Tsumu?”

“I had a happier life.”

The speaker crackles a little. Atsumu thinks his brother is suppressing a snort. “Whatever ya say, ‘Tsumu.”

…

Aoi and Takeshi’s cars pull up in front of their dad’s house at the same time. Their families start to get out, but the two siblings are already speed-walking down the drive and meeting each other at the porch.

“Did Hana tell you?” they ask at the same time.

Takeshi runs a hand through his hair. “What should we do?”

“He’ll find out eventually, won’t he? We’ll just have to tell him, I suppose.”

“He’s eating again for the first time in three weeks, Aoi. What- what if it’s better for him to just, you know, forget?”

The siblings stare at each other for a moment, and then nod in silent agreement as their families join them at the front door.

“Riko, Haru,” Aoi says, squatting to be at eye level with them. “If Granddad seems a little strange today, promise me you won’t say anything?”

The children nod, a little wide-eyed. Aoi straightens, and rings the doorbell. Her dad flings it open almost immediately, and there are no more traces of sadness on his face. Aoi exchanges a look with her brother, just as her dad throws his arms open.

“Welcome!” he beams, and then calls over his shoulder, “Omi, the kids are here!”

Aoi forces a smile onto her face. “Hi, dad.” She looks at the space next to her father. “Papa.”

…

“All the television programmes these days are so lame,” Atsumu complains as he flicks the TV off. “I’d much rather watch Naruto than whatever silly drama they have on.”

Kiyoomi puts his book down on the coffee table. “Do you want to head to bed?”

“’M not tired yet,” Atsumu whines, not caring that he sounds like the bratty high school kid he was seventy years ago. “Don’t wanna sleep.”

Kiyoomi walks over to the old radio, and fiddles with it for a while until an old song echoes through their living room. He turns back to Atsumu, and offers his hand. “May I have this dance?”

Seventy years, and his heart still skips a beat at the way Kiyoomi’s eyes twinkle when he’s mischievous, or loving. He takes his hand. “My, my,” he croons even as he lets Kiyoomi pull him up. “So corny, Omi-kun.”

_A life with love is a life that’s been lived_ , the singer on the radio intones. Atsumu’s eyes squint with the force of his smile as he clutches Kiyoomi’s waist and leans his cheek on his shoulder. “Guess ya really love me, huh.”

“Never said I didn’t,” Kiyoomi retorts, but his hands smooth down Atsumu’s back as they sway around their living room.

Outside, their neighbours pass by the house on their way home. “Mama,” the little girl asks. “Why is Uncle Atsumu doing that?”

Their neighbour follows her daughter’s line of sight into the illuminated living room, the lone silhouette swaying in the quiet evening.

She smiles sadly at her daughter. “He just misses someone a lot, Yui.”

…

In the end, it was Aoi who couldn’t keep it in.

“Eat yer vegetables, Omi,” her dad chides as he snatches a clump of broccoli and puts it in the rice bowl next to his. “Ya have to set a good example to yer grandchildren.”

Takeshi shoots a warning look at Riko, who closes her mouth and returns her gaze to her food. As the family finishes their lunch in relative silence, Hana-san comes to table and quietly suggests to Aoi’s dad that maybe, her papa wasn’t feeling very hungry today.

“I’ll put his food in a Tupperware and he can have it later, when he has more of an appetite,” she says. Her dad reluctantly agrees, and lets Hana bring the bowl away from the table.

Aoi follows her dad into the living room, where they stop in front of the shelf of photos above the television. He reaches for a frame, and shows it to Aoi. She is familiar with that particular photo- her fathers and the rest of the Japan National Team, grinning with tears in their eyes as they took the gold medal at her fathers’ second and last Olympics.

“You probably won’t remember this, but Uncle Tobio and Uncle Shouyou lost you in the mall when you were a kid,” her dad laughs. “Your papa screamed at them on the phone for a good twenty minutes until they found you.” He casts a conspiratorial look towards the armchair by the window. “And then we never let them babysit you or Takeshi again.”

“Uncle Bokuto and Uncle Akaashi once left me in a supermarket trolley,” Aoi says. “But Uncle Bokuto bought me ice-cream so I wouldn’t tell you.”

Her dad chortles heartily. Aoi looks at the crows’ feet at the corner of his bright eyes, and smiles fondly at him.

“I’m thinkin’ of bringin’ your papa to meet with the old team. Y’know, for old times’ sake,” her dad says, and Aoi’s brain grinds to a halt.

“You can’t,” she blurts.

Her dad frowns at her. “Why not?”

She glances at her brother briefly, and Takeshi gives her a minute nod. “Dad,” she starts haltingly. “Don’t you remember?”

…

_Dear Atsumu,_

_I am so sorry to hear of your loss. Kiyoomi was a dear friend to our family, and we are grieving here as well. It is unfair that he should be the first of us to go, but in the time we have known him, he made our lives better in so many ways._

_Koutarou and I will be at the wake this coming Tuesday. We cannot imagine the pain you must be feeling, and we want you to know that if you ever need anything, we are always a short drive away._

_Sincerely,_

_Akaashi Keiji_

…

Hana hesitantly cracks the bedroom door open. The only light in the room was coming from the lamp on the bedside table. Miya-san lay on the bed, facing the window, only his outline visible in the dark.

The family had left earlier, with his children making her promise to keep them updated. Little Haru, in particular, had been shaken as he watched his grandfather’s expression transform from disbelief to shock, and watched his knees buckle as if they could not take the force of his crushing realisation. Aoi had rushed to hold him as his shoulders shook, and Hana had wanted to cover little Haru’s eyes.

“Miya-san?” she ventures. “If you’re awake, would you like udon or rice for dinner?”

The elderly man turns, and sits up slowly. His eyes are glassy, but the deep lines on his face that had been etched there for days after his husband’s funeral are gone.

“Omi wants rice, I think,” his voice is barely above a whisper. Then his gaze clears. “Yeah, he says he wants rice.”

Hana feels her chest twinge in pity. “Of course, Miya-san.”

…

Aoi and Takeshi watch from the dining room the following Monday as their father converses with the empty space next to him on the sofa, his eyes bright.

“There isn’t any point in telling him, I guess,” Aoi sighs. “Look at him. He’s so much happier, not knowing.”

Takeshi turns to Hana. “You kept all the letters from Papa’s friends?”

She nods. “And the papers from the funeral home, too.”

Takeshi turns back to his sister. “It is what it is, then.”

…

Osamu listens, only half-attentive, as his brother prattles on about his granddaughter’s first Nationals. Apparently, Takeshi had brought him to watch Riko’s game, which Osamu thinks can only inflate Atsumu’s ego further. “She jumps higher than Shouyou, I think.”

“Who’d have thought, huh?” Osamu says.

He lets Atsumu talk for a while more, and then during a lull in the conversation, asks the same question he’s been asking for months, since he’d gotten that frazzled call from his niece, many Sundays ago.

“Omi’s fine,” Atsumu says, and Osamu hears the smile in his voice. “We’re going to the park to watch the sunset tomorrow.”

“Ya became so boring, ‘Tsumu,” Osamu says. “Ya disappoint me.”

“Yeah, but I had the happier life,” Atsumu tells him, as usual.

Osamu is grateful that Atsumu can’t see the tear tracing its way down his cheek. “Ya sure did, ‘Tsumu.”

…

When they moved into their first apartment, Kiyoomi had made it a point to unpack their photos, before anything else.

“Those are the decorative bits and pieces, Omi,” Atsumu had said. “Wouldn’t it make more sense if we put those up, later? After we make this shithole actually look like a home, that is.”

Kiyoomi puts the first photograph on the console. “I think it already does.”

It’s a picture from their first date, Atsumu holding the camera at the most awkward angle possible, Kiyoomi clearly scowling behind his mask. There is a beautiful sunset over Osaka’s skyline behind them, but the whole picture is slightly blurred.

“Of all the pictures ya coulda picked as the first photo for the house,” Atsumu complains. “My eyes are barely open in that. Now this house is gonna have bad energy, or somethin’.”

Kiyoomi had laughed, and went back to unpacking. “If there’s any bad energy, it’ll be from the curtains you picked out.”

Atsumu harrumphed. “Why d’you even like that ugly photo?”

“It was our first new beginning, don’t you know? It reminds me of all the new beginnings we’re going to have.”

…

The sunset over Tokyo is beautiful. From the top of the small hill, the city’s buzz is reduced to a faint hum, and the top of the buildings are painted in all shades of gold.

Atsumu puts the car in neutral, and lets the radio play on as he sits in silence. _Knowing that the morning would come,_ _I still wanted to stay in your sky like a star._

Atsumu smiles a little at the lyrics, and then takes a photo out of his jacket pocket, its edges yellow with age. He turns it over, and reads the pencilled words that he has long memorised in the sixty years since Kiyoomi wrote them, right before he left for his first month-long trip abroad.

“You aren’t really here, are you,” he says, finally. He smiles at the passenger seat all the same. “I see that now.”

The sun dips below the horizon, and Atsumu watches the last rays of gold stretch valiantly into the vast black sky looming ahead. The hillside is quiet, save for a few chirping birds, and he winds down a window to let the breeze in.

“I was so afraid of being lonely,” he says. “I guess I just wanted you for myself a little longer. Even a lifetime isn’t long enough with you.”

A gentle evening breeze curls into the car, and Atsumu catches a whiff of fresh linen, smelling exactly the same as Kiyoomi’s favourite soap. Atsumu hasn’t turned the headlights of the car off, so it briefly illuminates two shadows darting into a bush a distance- a bushy-tailed fox, and a weasel with sleek black fur. He has to laugh a little at the irony.

“You’re still around, in a way,” Atsumu says. He turns the photo over to look at Kiyoomi’s face again. “As long as I’m here.”

…

Hana found him the next morning, lying on his back in bed. If she didn’t know better, he could have been asleep.

Somehow, she had known when she’d bade him goodnight the previous evening, that it would be the last time she would do so. His expression had been serene, and he had not spoken since he returned from his drive earlier, but sat quietly in the armchair that used to be his husband’s favourite spot, smiling serenely.

She moved silently to pull the sheets up to his chest, and caught sight of the old photograph clutched to his chest. On its back, there was a short note in pencil, faded with age.

_Still with you._

* * *

_Though we may be out of step_

_I want to walk this path with you_

_Still with you._

**Author's Note:**

> In case it's still unclear, Sakusa passed a few months ago, and Atsumu has been in denial since then, and thinks that he's still around.
> 
> This fic was inspired by Still With You by Jungkook, and also Supermarket Flowers by Ed Sheeran. Still with you isn't originally about the death of a loved one, but I can't help but feel like it particularly fits the theme of this story that I wanted to tell. This fic is very different (literally on the other end of the spectrum) from my other fics, but I wanted to try something new, especially since this idea has been on my mind for a while. This is my first time writing something angsty, so I'd really appreciate any kind of feedback! Also please let me know if there's any other content warnings I should be putting in the tags other than major character death. 
> 
> hmu on twitter @sugarstruggles


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